


Brother Mine

by ItaLolita



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft is a shoulder to cry on, Poor Molly, Protective Mycroft, Reconciliation, Sherlock is Mycroft's only weakness, Sherlock is a Mess, Slightly less background Mystrade, Suicidal Thoughts, background Johnlock, episode by episode, the holmes brothers - Freeform, the list
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29865978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItaLolita/pseuds/ItaLolita
Summary: "I need you alive. Our parents need you alive. Damn it, the world needs you alive.""Fuck the world. It's ridiculous, really. It keeps insisting on continuing to spin."---In which Sherlock is Mycroft's only weakness, and Mycroft is Sherlock's biggest inconvenience.OrThe story of how the Holmes brothers found each other again.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. You Nearly Died And All You Want Is Chips?

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Vague description of an overdose and hospitalization.
> 
> The first time Mycroft was truly afraid for his brother was when Sherlock was in high school.
> 
> Or
> 
> The origin story of "the list."

The first time Mycroft was truly afraid for his brother was when Sherlock was in high school.

Sherlock was different from everyone else. He was so logical; he knew everything about everyone around him. He knew their secrets, he knew their transgressions. Who would associate with someone like that? No one but the worst sort.

Sherlock may have been logical, but he was also so very emotional. And when he was young, he was easily tricked into believing that  _ that _ crowd cared for him. He knew they were lying when they said they didn’t care about what he could do. But lying didn’t matter, because it was  _ talking _ . Sherlock loved talking.

They would have him collect information on their desired subject, and then they would blackmail them. It was petty, childish blackmail. The material itself was trivial. Proof that they’d cheated on a math test, or that they’d shagged another girl’s boyfriend. Nothing of importance. But ordinary people kept so much stock in it. The Holmes children had learned to tell the difference between themselves and ordinary people early.

In return, the blackmailers could invite themselves to parties, have their homework done for them, that sort of thing. Again, petty and childish. And Sherlock was the key to their stupid games. He knew they were using him. The problem was he didn’t care.

Sherlock could pick them apart, piece by piece. He could ruin them, whenever he wanted. And with evidence of crimes far more serious than a copied quiz.

Drugs. And Sherlock wanted in. He wanted to experiment. That’s all Sherlock ever wanted, to experiment.

So they set him up. It worked out perfectly well for them. Under the influence, Sherlock was still just as brilliant, but so very compliant. Willing to do anything for friends. His biggest mistake, Mycroft knew. The Holmeses didn’t have friends.

Addiction doesn’t care how clever you are, how careful you are. It wraps itself around your brain and constricts it. Sherlock had been smoking for years, but faced with the hard stuff, he didn’t stand a chance.

They called Mycroft, one day. The school. He was missing. It was a boarding school, how could they let this happen?  _ We can’t control him. Not Sherlock. _

A quick interrogation and analysis of Sherlock's closest associates had tipped him off to his brother’s habit.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid Mycroft. He should have seen it coming. That’s what he was all about, right? Knowing? He should at least know when his own brother was in trouble. _

After that it was a simple survey of the immediate surrounding area ( _ Sherlock couldn’t run far, he wasn’t an athletic child, thank god, and he didn’t have any money _ ) before he found an abandoned building, once a housing development, now a den of junkies. Mycroft couldn’t stand being near it, much less inside it, but he couldn’t just send someone for Sherlock, he had to get him himself.

So he’d grit his teeth and asked around, and was finally pointed in the right direction by a man with bloodshot eyes whom he quickly deleted from his memory.

And there was Sherlock. Lying there, convulsing, in a puddle of his own vomit. God knew what he had taken. Something serious. Probably multiple somethings. But he was breathing.

Mycroft stood over him and for the first time, felt genuine terror for his little brother.  _ Sherlock was clever, so clever, so special, how had he gotten here? _

So Mycroft held him. He held him as he shook. And he didn’t stop until the paramedics arrived, and then he couldn’t bear to let go of his hand the whole ambulance ride. When finally they tore him away, the terror had died down, replaced by an uncontrollable but low-level panic. He needed to make sense of it all.

_ Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. What had he done? _

Mycroft called their parents. They were livid. They were confused. They were scared. Fear. Weakness. Mycroft needed to cut it out of himself. It was a tumor, he was a surgeon. He couldn’t afford fear. He needed to be strong.  _ For Sherlock _ .

They let him see him, of course. Once they’d ensured he was no longer in immediate danger. Mycroft thought, as humorously as he was capable of, that they really should have accounted for the immediate danger Sherlock always posed to himself.

When Sherlock woke, he was back to glaring. He did it quite well. As different as he was, he was still excellent at being a teenage boy.

“Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re always smug, Mycroft. It’s part of your nature. I’ll be hearing about this until the end of my days.”

“If it hadn’t been for me, that would’ve been rather soon.”

“Oh, do shut up. I was  _ fine _ .”

“Sherlock, you were not remotely  _ fine _ , in any sense of the word. What in the world drove you to this?”

“I have my reasons.”

“There is no reason I can possibly think of for you to throw away your life, and the extraordinary gifts you have been given, on an overdose. You could have  _ died _ , Sherlock. I can’t let that happen.”

“Really, Mycroft? We both know you would’ve quietly poisoned me by now if it weren’t for Mummy. So stop acting like you care.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, I am your elder brother, I am responsible for you. You know-”

“I said STOP, Mycroft! You don’t care, you just don’t want my death on your conscience. I. Don’t. Need. You.”

Mycroft could feel himself snapping, like a wooden beam under intense pressure, splintering. 

Sherlock smiled. Always a bad sign. “Oh, have I touched a nerve there?”

“Sherlock, I-”

“You know what your problem is, Mycroft?”

“William Sher-”

“You’ve always needed-”

“-lock Sco-”

“-to be needed. To be necessary. It’s quite-”

“-tt Holmes,”

“-pathetic.”

“SHERLOCK.”

Sherlock shut his mouth, smirking.

“Sherlock. You know when I’m lying. And I trust that you know that when I tell you  _ I care whether you live or die _ , I’m telling the truth.”

“Ah, sentiment. Your vice of choice. If you don’t count the gluttony.”

Mycroft felt the sting, but he ignored it. “Sherlock, I’d like to offer you a deal.”

“Not interested.”

“Listen to me.”

“Not. Interested.”

“I need you alive. Our parents need you alive. Damn it, the world needs you alive.”

“Fuck the world. It’s ridiculous, really. It keeps insisting on continuing to spin.”

“And we must continue with it. You’re extraordinary, Sherlock. We both are.”

“I’m sorry, when did this become about you?”

“I know what it feels like to be extraordinary, Sherlock. I know what it’s like to be different.”

“Get to the point.”

“If this-  _ When _ this happens again, Sherlock -and don’t tell me it won’t, I know you better than that- I need to know that you’ll make it out.”

“And how do you suppose that will happen?”

“I want you to make a list.”

“What?”

“A list. I know that if you want to do something, no one can stop you. If you want to use again, you will find a way to do so. So when you’re about to do it, I want you to make a list of everything you intend to take. And you give it to the person who finds you, or the medical professionals, to ensure that they can keep you alive.”

“What do I get out of this?”

“Continued existence.”

“Be serious, brother.”

“I won’t be smug. I won’t judge. I’ll pay for your hospital bills. I will do anything I can to help you.”

“And?”

“ _ And _ I won’t make you go to rehab.”

Sherlock stuck out his hand, arm still hooked up to an IV. “You have a deal.”

Mycroft fought not to show his relief. Sherlock saw it anyway. He took his hand and shook it. “Thank you.”

“Any chance I could get some chips?”

Mycroft smiled. “Of course. My treat.”


	2. Love Is Russian Roulette And You Could Never Resist A Dangerous Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't want you to get hurt.  
> M
> 
> Or
> 
> Mycroft knows what it looks like when Sherlock starts falling in love.

John Watson. Retired army doctor, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Afghanistan veteran. PTSD sufferer. In need of a place to stay. Quite obviously bisexual, but repressed. Ordinary. What was it about this man that had captured Sherlock’s attention?

“Have you ever considered that maybe Sherlock’s just lonely?” Lestrade had asked over the phone.

“Sherlock doesn’t get lonely. In order to be lonely you have to enjoy people’s presence.”

“So maybe he enjoys John’s presence. Or at least doesn’t despise it the way he does yours.”

“Sherlock doesn’t like humans. He doesn’t understand them. It runs in the family.”

“You think?”

“What is special about John Watson? Why would Sherlock choose him, of all people? It can’t be random.”

“He seems like a normal bloke to me.”

“That’s the problem.” Mycroft hung up.

Mycroft decided that he needed to meet this… John Watson.

It was easy. Commandeer a few security cameras, call the closest phone booth. Have Anthea pick him up. Within 30 minutes he had him.

“Have a seat, John.”

“You know, I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but uh… you could just phone me. On my phone.”

_ God, he really was ordinary. _ “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

_ Stubborn too. _ “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

Mycroft had to laugh at that. “Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him… yesterday.”

“Mmm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” Mycroft replied, only half-sarcastically. It was no secret Sherlock was gay. The question was if John knew.

“Who are you?”

_ Oh, Dr. Watson, so very dull. _ “An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him. How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

_ A brother. _ “An enemy.”

John was incredulous. “An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well thank god you’re above all that!”

John’s phone chimed in his pocket. He checked it.  _ Sherlock. _

“I hope I’m not distracting you.”

“Not distracting me at all.”

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong… but I think that’s none of your business.”

Mycroft smiled inwardly. “It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.”

“If you do move into, um… two-hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to... ease your way.”

“Why?”

_ Because money makes the world go ‘round. It’s the greatest motivator of the ordinary. _ “Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

Mycroft decided to tell the truth. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship.”

Another text message alert. John checked it again.

“No.”

_ Of course. _ “But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother.”

He laughed again. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”  _ Sherlock will eat you alive. _

“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested.”

Mycroft pulled out Ella’s notes. “‘Trust issues,’ it says here.”

“What’s that?”

_ You know what it is. _ “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?”

_ Everything about you.  _ “You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily.”

“Are we done?”

“You tell me.”

John turned to leave.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

He swiveled. “My what?”

“Show me.”

John obeyed, and Mycroft came to him, ready to examine.

“Don’t.”

Mycroft gave him a disapproving look. John gave him his hand.

“Remarkable.” It was, really. So still.

“What is?”

“Most people blunder ’round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already. Haven’t you?”

“What's wrong with my hand?”

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder.” (it was, but the tremor wasn’t a part of it) “She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”

“Who the hell are you? How do you know that?”

“Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson… You miss it.” It was the truth of course, Dr. Watson loved danger. That’s why he was drawn to Sherlock. That’s why he could face Mycroft. They didn’t scare him. Danger gave him purpose.

“Welcome back,” Mycroft whispered, then walked away, swinging his umbrella. “Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson.”

Andrea would handle it. Mycroft would keep an eye on him. 

The drugs bust came next. Idiotic on the police’s part. Sherlock was clean, Mycroft knew that. And Sherlock got into the cab, because it was a game, and Sherlock loved games. He loved the stakes. And more than anything, Sherlock Holmes hated being bored.

And  _ John Watson. _ Oh, this was getting interesting. John Watson took the shot. Bravery may be stupidity, but Dr. Watson was in that case a very, very stupid man.

Mycroft turned up to the crime scene. He always came when Sherlock was shaken up. And this was definitely one of those times.

“Sherlock. That’s him, that’s the man I was talking to you about.”

“I know exactly who that is,” Sherlock said flatly.

Mycroft smiled. “So… Another case cracked. How very public-spirited. Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?” What he didn’t say was  _ thank goodness you’re alive. _

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, as if he didn’t know.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern.’”

“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”  _ We’re family, Sherlock. _

“Oddly enough, no.”

“We have more in common than you’d like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.” He watched Dr. Watson’s face change with realization.

“I upset her? Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped.

“No. No, wait… Mummy? Who’s Mummy?” John interjected. His confusion was amusing.

“Mother. Our Mother. This is my brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock explained. “Putting on weight again?”

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from retorting.

“He’s your brother?”  _ Slow on the uptake, wasn’t he? _

“Of course he’s my brother,” Sherlock said, like he was trying to teach a child.

“So he’s not?”

“Not what?”

“I don’t know. Criminal mastermind?”

“Close enough.”

“For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government.” Mycroft said.

“He  _ is _ the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does for the traffic.”  _ Spoken like a child. _ But of course, Mycroft could never see him as anything other than his little brother.

Sherlock walked away. John followed him, but stopped.

“So, when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I mean, it actually is a childish feud?”

“He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners,” Mycroft responded wistfully.

“Yeah. No… God, no.” Mycroft could see the gears turning as John played out the scenario in his head. “I’d better, erm… Hello, again,” he said to Andrea. They had a brief exchange. In her typical fashion, Andrea had forgotten all about him.

“Good night, Doctor Watson.”  _ I’ll keep an eye on you. _

“Sir, shall we go?” Andrea asked.

“Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. Either way, we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three active.”

“Sorry, sir, whose status?”

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

**Sherlock, about John.**

**M**

**What about him?**

**S**

**Don’t you think you’re rushing into this?**

**M**

**He’s a flatmate, brother.**

**S**

**We both know he’s more than that.**

**M**

**I don’t know what you’re talking about.**

**S**

**You’re getting attached.**

**M**

**I am not. I needed an assistant.**

**S**

**One who just so happens to be a lonely bisexual army doctor seven years older than you with a taste for danger? I know your preferences, Sherlock.**

**M**

**You know nothing about me.**

**S**

**I know you better than you know yourself.**

**M**

**Why do you care?**

**S**

**I don’t want you to get hurt.**

**M**

**I don’t need you to take care of me.**

**S**

**Of course you don’t. I’m sorry. Good night, Sherlock.**

**M**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! There is no way I'll be able to keep this up, so don't expect too much from me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave constructive criticism in the comments.


End file.
